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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28824594">we'll fill our mouths with cinnamon</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p'>victoria_p (musesfool)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>tumblr prompt fic [29]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5+1 Things, Domestic Batfamily (DCU), Family Feels, Gen, Snacks &amp; Snack Food, robins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:15:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,795</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28824594</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After school snacks with Alfred over the years.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alfred Pennyworth &amp; Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth &amp; Damian Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth &amp; Jason Todd, Dick Grayson &amp; Alfred Pennyworth, Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne, Stephanie Brown &amp; Alfred Pennyworth, Tim Drake &amp; Alfred Pennyworth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>tumblr prompt fic [29]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/265153</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>212</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/lembeau/gifts">lembeau</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For lembeau for More Joy Day. Title from the Decemberists.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>zero.</strong>
</p><p>As with so many traditions in the Wayne family, this one began with Martha and Bruce. In those days, the manor was fully staffed, and the kitchen was not Alfred's domain. But he and everyone else on the staff knew that on Thursday mornings and Saturday afternoons, when the cook was off, Martha would take to the kitchen to cook for her boys. Martha was not a particularly skilled cook, but she was enthusiastic, and Bruce would sit on a stool and help her in any way she asked. Martha would make cinnamon buns every Saturday, and Bruce would help her ice them, and the kitchen was invariably a disaster afterward.</p><p>Alfred well remembered finding Bruce running through the halls with sticky hands while Martha called out not to worry, she had it handled. She would swing him into her arms—even after he considered himself too old for such treatment—and press kisses to his sticky face, and he would laugh and laugh. </p><p>After the Waynes passed and the staff left, Alfred tried to replicate the cinnamon buns, but even after he'd mastered the kitchen, they were never the same. The smell would be right—yeasty and warm and bursting with cinnamon—but Bruce would always shake his head and turn away.</p><p>Instead, as an after school snack, Alfred would serve him madeleines fresh from the oven. He'd pour him a glass of cold milk in the summer, and a mug of hot cocoa in the winter. Alfred experimented with different flavors, but Bruce always preferred the classic lemon dusted lightly with powdered sugar, which always ended up on his shirt. </p><p>Bruce would sit at the kitchen table silently, at first, and then slowly, as weeks went by and the need to talk grew stronger than the urge to be silent, he opened up about the day's happenings and what he had learned, as Alfred began to ready dinner. Sometimes Alfred would join him at the table with a cup of tea, and they would go over Bruce's homework, but often they sat together in companionable silence.</p><p>Even after Bruce went away to boarding school, they kept up the tradition in the summer, until Bruce turned fifteen and felt himself too old for cookies and milk, and confiding in his guardian.</p><p>Alfred missed it, and rarely made madeleines over the next several years, until after Bruce returned from his journey around the world and asked for them. He joined Alfred sometimes for tea after dinner, and they discussed the plans for his crusade, and then the cases he was working on, and then the doubts and fears about being a parent that Alfred understood only too well.</p><p>*</p><p>
  <strong>one.</strong>
</p><p>When Dick joined them, Alfred restarted the tradition. The boy would eat almost anything, and Alfred was happy to have a chance to make old favorites and new recipes alike.</p><p>Dick didn't sit still for much or for long, but Alfred was guaranteed fifteen minutes of Dick's undivided attention every day after school, though he tended to sit on the counter despite all of Alfred's chiding, eating cupcakes from the tray without a plate. </p><p>"They have a wrapper, Alfred. Why would I make more work for you by using a plate?" he would always say, and even years later, as an adult, Alfred had yet to win that argument. (He'd given up fighting about the counter not being an appropriate perch after the third week. He would never admit it, but the ongoing barrage of bird puns drove him batty.)</p><p>Dick said his favorite cupcake was something called "funfetti," which Alfred made once from the boxed mix and found unbearably sweet, but whenever Alfred asked him in the morning before school what he wanted for his afternoon snack, he had a different answer and he never complained when Alfred cycled through his large repertoire of sweets. </p><p>For his birthday, Alfred reverse-engineered a home made version of funfetti using his trusty yellow cake recipe and red and green sprinkles in the batter and to decorate the chocolate frosting. </p><p>"My colors!" Dick shouted when he bit into the first one, and Alfred understood in that moment, or thought he did, anyway, and was happy to indulge the boy in this particular snack going forward.</p><p>Even as an adult, long past the age when most people would request such a thing, Dick seemed pleased to have his cupcakes speckled with red and green. When he turned twenty-one, Alfred offered to make him something less childish and he shook his head and smiled wistfully.</p><p>"My parents didn't do a lot of fancy cooking. They were more interested in making sure we ate the right way to stay in performance shape than in baking cake or cookies. But for my birthday every year, my mother made funfetti cupcakes with vanilla frosting from a can."  </p><p>"My dear boy," Alfred said. He put a hand on Dick's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Then of course we shall have funfetti cupcakes. If you wish, I can purchase the frosting." </p><p>"Your frosting is definitely better." Dick laughed. "Thank you."</p><p>"Of course." He patted the counter. "Tell me what other plans you have for your birthday."</p><p>Dick sat and talked while Alfred got dinner ready, his feet swinging and hands gesturing as if he were still a ten-year-old boy, and all was right with the world. </p><p>*</p><p>
  <strong>two.</strong>
</p><p>Jason was suspicious of everything when Bruce brought him home, but he ate whatever was put in front of him without complaint. He hoarded food as well, no doubt worried that he'd one day be back on the street without the ability to feed himself.</p><p>He liked to do his homework at the kitchen table while Alfred worked, and it was easy enough to put a cup of cocoa and a plate of chocolate chip cookies out every afternoon for him. He was such an appreciative eater that Alfred couldn't help but feel flattered. He remembered the struggle of getting Bruce to eat in the early days after his parents had passed, how he'd painstakingly learned the most basic recipes to tempt him, and several of those recipes—including these self-same cookies—had remained in rotation all these years later.</p><p>Still, after a few months, Alfred began to vary the treats he fed the boy. He didn't do anything too unusual—he made oatmeal raisin one week, and raspberry thumbprints the next, and Jason seemed to like them well enough. </p><p>One Saturday afternoon when he wasn't expecting Jason to join him, he sat down with a cup of tea and three shortbread biscuits to plan the next week's menus and shopping. The shortbread recipe was his mother's, and her mother's before that, and while he didn't think of himself as sentimental, it always pleased him to have something of theirs in the life he'd made for himself with the Waynes.</p><p>He was deciding whether to make pot roast or beef stew on Wednesday when Jason came into the kitchen and sat down across from him. He was windblown and red-cheeked, and had leaves in his hair.</p><p>"Have you washed your hands?"</p><p>Jason heaved a great sigh and headed to the sink, where he washed his hands thoroughly before he returned to the table. "Whatcha doing?"</p><p>"Planning next week's meals. Would you prefer pot roast or beef stew this week?" </p><p>Jason shrugged, which was unusual. He was a lad of definite opinions, and once he'd grown comfortable here, he was unafraid of sharing them. He fidgeted for a few moments and then asked, "Can I have one of your cookies? And some tea?"</p><p>"Of course, lad." Alfred gently pushed the plate containing the two remaining biscuits towards Jason before rising to retrieve another mug. "Do you like tea?"</p><p>"I like iced tea," Jason replied, and Alfred bit back a reflexive sigh at this admission. "Never had it hot before."</p><p>"Well, then, let's see if you enjoy it." Alfred prepared the cup, a little sweet and a little milky, just as he'd had it as a boy, and placed it before him. "Be careful. It's hot."</p><p>"Yeah, yeah," Jason mumbled, his mouth full of shortbread.</p><p>"And don't speak with your mouth full, Master Jason."</p><p>"Cookies are good, Alf."</p><p>"Thank you. It was my mother's recipe."</p><p>"Oh. That's nice." Jason gave him a tentative smile and Alfred smiled back. Jason's smile grew wider and more assured. "This is good." </p><p>When they were done, he said, "Thank you for sharing that with me."</p><p>"Feel free to join me any time, Master Jason."</p><p>And Jason did, discussing the plot points and surprise twists of whatever show he was watching or book he was reading at the time, over cups of tea and Alfred's family shortbread. He listened attentively when Alfred spoke of Shakespeare and Shaw and Coward, and sometimes they even read plays together, acting out famous scenes with teacups in hand.</p><p>It made his absence that much more unbearable once he was gone. It was months before Alfred could bring himself to make shortbread again, new memories of loss mingling with the old.</p><p>Even after Jason's miraculous return, Alfred missed him and wouldn't consider him truly back until he was seated across the kitchen table, eating his way through Alfred's shortbread and expounding on the latest iteration of <em>The Three Musketeers</em>, cup of tea in hand.</p><p>*</p><p>
  <strong>three.</strong>
</p><p>Like the other boys Bruce had adopted, Timothy was bright and thoughtful, and when he'd grown comfortable, chatty. He lit up like the sun under Alfred's undivided attention, and was happy to talk about his day at school, his photography, and his attempts at learning to skateboard. </p><p>He generally preferred salty snacks to sweet ones, and Alfred tried to tempt him with pecan sandies and salted caramels, and even went so far once as to make pretzels. The pretzels were a success (even if the use of lye was not a venture Alfred wished to undertake regularly), but though Tim happily munched his way through them in between texting his friends and talking with Alfred, he showed no interest in cooking whatsoever.</p><p>Until the day Alfred made a Swiss roll for dessert. Then he was fascinated, and requested it regularly. He seemed to prefer a vanilla cake filled with vanilla Chantilly cream, though he ate whatever flavor combination Alfred felt like making on any given day.</p><p>"It's like a Twinkie, but, you know, <em>good</em>."</p><p>"I see."</p><p>Tim laughed. "Don't worry, Alf. It's a compliment."</p><p>Alfred gave him a small smile. "Then I shall take it as such." </p><p>As Timothy took on more responsibility, he spent less time with Alfred, and Alfred missed his bright chatter, even if he had the poor taste to prefer coffee to tea once he'd graduated from drinking that awful soda at every meal.</p><p>Alfred worried even more than usual while he was away on his quest to bring Bruce home. Had his grief precipitated a break from reality? Was he facing ever more daunting enemies alone? And was he doing so while subsisting on reheated coffee, stale Twinkies, and crisps?</p><p>When Timothy returned, Bruce in tow, he was paler and thinner than usual, and his triumph had a brittle edge. He no longer lived at the manor, and Alfred couldn't ensure he was eating properly without arriving unannounced at his apartment and stocking his refrigerator, and then keeping track of what he actually ate. It felt more invasive than Alfred liked, but one glance at the updated medical files seemed to warrant such attention, at least until he finally spoke with Tim about it.</p><p>"Thank you for joining me," Alfred began when Timothy sat down at the table. He'd made sure to issue his invitation for an afternoon while Damian had after school activities and Bruce would be picking him up after work.</p><p>"Of course, Alfred. What's up?" Tim took a sip of his freshly brewed coffee and sighed, his shoulders lowering slightly.</p><p>"I took the liberty of reviewing your medical file upon your return from abroad. I will not disclose the contents to anyone without your permission, but I want to ensure you are eating appropriately."</p><p>Tim set his mug back on the table and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "That's what all those containers in my fridge are about?"</p><p>"Yes. I understand your reluctance to move back into your old room upstairs, and I regret that you feel that way, but you are still under my care."</p><p>"I'm an adult," Tim interrupted. "Or I might as well be. I've been taking care of myself for a long time, Alf. I'm okay."</p><p>Alfred looked at him steadily, unconvinced.</p><p>"I have protein drinks and energy drinks, and there are hundreds of restaurants that deliver. It's <em>Gotham</em>."</p><p>Alfred took a small sip of tea and continued to regard Tim silently over the rim of his cup. </p><p>"One of the smoothies I make has spinach in it and everything."</p><p>Alfred set his own cup down in its saucer and raised an eyebrow.</p><p>Tim sighed and squared his shoulders. "I will join you for one meal a week here at the manor, and eat at least one meal a day that is not in the form of an energy drink."</p><p>"Very well, Master Tim. I will hold you to that. Now, there's a Swiss roll on the counter, if you'd like some cake."</p><p>"You're the best, Alf!"</p><p>Alfred smiled then. "It's been said."</p><p>He knew Tim would mean to keep his promise and frequently fail, but Alfred had other means at his disposal to ensure the boy ate properly. And having him home—upstairs—at least once a week would be a pleasant change, and a fine start at bringing him back into the fold.</p><p>*</p><p>
  <strong>four.</strong>
</p><p>Stephanie hadn't spent much time upstairs at the manor during her short and regrettably tragic stint as Robin, and her presence in the cave had not always been as welcome as it should have been. Alfred had his own regrets about Bruce's treatment of her, and when she returned—yet another unlooked for miracle, even if it put a permanent strain on the family's relationship with Leslie—he vowed to do better with this second chance.</p><p>She was always included in the snacks he made pre- and post-patrol, but it was in her capacity as a companion to Damian (even within the confines of his own mind, Alfred hesitated at using the term babysitter where Master Damian was concerned) that Alfred finally got to spend time with her outside the cave or the bunker.</p><p>She was an enthusiastic baker, and often asked him about techniques or recipes she'd seen on <em>Bake Off</em>, and he was thrilled to share his knowledge.</p><p>While her class load at university was heavy, she was frequently at the manor on weekend mornings, after brutal Friday night patrols, and she joined him in the kitchen on Saturday mornings, handling the waffle iron while he cooked up eggs and bacon on the stove.</p><p>Afterwards, she would pick his brain about his time as a medic, comparing it with what she'd learned from her mother, who was a nurse, and from Leslie, with whom she was still friendly and for whom she worked at the clinic in her limited spare time.</p><p>Today had contained none of that. Bruce was off-world with the League, Damian was in Kansas with the Kents, and Cassandra was downstairs working out after what appeared to be a rough patrol the night before.</p><p>Stephanie sat at the kitchen table with her textbooks spread out in front of her and her head cradled in her hands.</p><p>Alfred set a mug of hot cocoa and a plate with two palmiers on it in front of her. "Time for a break, Miss Stephanie."</p><p>"Ooh, elephant ears," she said, the tightness around her eyes easing as she smiled at him. She took a bite of one and hummed appreciatively. "Did you make these? What am I saying? Of course you did. These are amazing."</p><p>"Your enthusiasm is noted and appreciated," he replied, settling himself down across the table with his own cup of tea. "Is everything all right?"</p><p>"Yes. No. I don't know?" The words burst out of her in a rush, as if a dam had broken. "We helped Jason bust up a trafficking ring last night, and those are always the worst, and I have an organic chemistry test on Monday that is going to suck even though I've been studying for it and I think I know what I'm doing." She finished the first palmier and started on the second. "Of course, whenever I think I know what I'm doing, that's when it turns out I don't. So, I don't know."</p><p>Alfred wasn't the sort to offer false comfort. While Stephanie was a bright young woman who had seized the chance to attend university with both hands (unlike <em>some</em> of Alfred's charges), her life did not make studying her way to success particularly easy.</p><p>"Is there something I can help you with? I know it's old-fashioned, but Master Bruce always did well with flashcards."</p><p>Stephanie beamed at him, and crowed, "Great minds think alike!" She then dug through her backpack to produce a set of purple three by five index cards, which she handed across the table. "I really appreciate the help. And the snacks."</p><p>"Of course, Miss Stephanie. Any time."</p><p>She passed the exam with flying colors, and though Alfred couldn't take all the credit, it did warm his heart to know he'd had a hand in it. He made palmiers again the next weekend to celebrate.</p><p>*</p><p>
  <strong>five.</strong>
</p><p>Young Master Damian was a handful of a sort different from the other boys Alfred had helped raise. He wanted so desperately to belong, to be loved, while at the same time fearing that love and belonging. He had no clue how to handle that cognitive dissonance, and it was only by the grace of Dick's patient and generous heart that he allowed himself to be taught to manage those disparate feelings.</p><p>After all of the upheavals he—they all—had experienced, Alfred instituted a routine. Children responded well to structure and schedules, and despite Damian's insistence that he was not a child, he would benefit as well. </p><p>The penthouse had an adequate kitchen—Alfred had been involved in its design, after all—and each afternoon, he sat with Damian as the boy grumbled over his homework, complaining all the while that it was stupid, useless, and he already knew everything anyway.</p><p>Ah, youth.</p><p>As he had with the others, he offered Damian snacks during these sessions. Damian often found American baked goods too sweet, and so Alfred reached for his shortbread recipe again, and the anise and sesame biscuits. He learned to make mamoul, which the boy devoured happily.</p><p>But it was, surprisingly, Alfed's blueberry scones that Damian requested whenever Alfred asked if there was anything specific he wanted after his homework was done or he'd returned from his violin lessons. This continued upon their move back to the manor after Bruce returned from being lost in the timestream. Damian was not the only one who benefited from having a routine.</p><p>Damian preferred tea, as well, though he asked that it be spiced with cardamom and cloves. It was a warm and comforting brew, and Alfred could understand why he drank it. He mainly stuck to Earl Grey himself, or a dark English breakfast tea that often wound up oversteeped, but sometimes after a day of running errands in the chilly November damp, he would brew a pot of spiced tea. Damian would materialize in the kitchen as if summoned, on his own as silent as everyone else in the family, his entrance heralded by the tapping of Titus's claws on the hardwood floor of the hallway.</p><p>The scones went well with the tea, Alfred thought, their mild sweetness enhanced by the warmth of the spices.</p><p>Damian set his sketchbook on the table and seated himself behind it, with Titus taking up his place Damian's feet. "Thank you, Pennyworth."  </p><p>"You are quite welcome, Master Damian." Alfred poured himself a cup after serving Damian, and sat down as well. "All of your assignments are complete, I take it?"</p><p>Damian nodded. "Father will review them this evening."</p><p>"Very well."</p><p>They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the only sound the rain against the window and the scratch of Damian's pencil against paper, until Titus rose and began barking at the kitchen door. </p><p>"Are there towels in the mud room?"</p><p>"Yes. And make sure you wear a hat. The temperature has dropped quite a bit even in the last hour."</p><p>Damian sighed heavily. "Yes, Pennyworth." He stood, but before he left to take the dog out, he tore the page he'd been working on out of the sketchbook, turned it over, and slid it across the table to Alfred. He left without waiting for Alfred to look at it.</p><p>It was a portrait of Alfred as he sat at the table, ribbons of steam rising from his tea cup and head bent over his menu planner. Alfred felt the unexpected sting of tears behind his eyes, and a warm tightness in his chest. He cleared his throat, finished his tea, and gave the portrait pride of place on the refrigerator. Eventually, he would have it framed and hung with the family portraits in the gallery, but for now, he wanted to be able to see it all the time.</p><p>*</p><p>
  <strong>plus one.</strong>
</p><p>One early May afternoon, Alfred found himself teaching Stephanie how to make cinnamon buns so she could make them for her mother on Mother's Day. She was an attentive student, and had already learned several of his favorite recipes (she had tried to make palmiers in the shape of bats, because of course she had), so it was a pleasure to work with her.</p><p>They'd just rolled the dough into a log when Bruce came into the kitchen for a bottle of water and stayed to watch them for a few moments. </p><p>"From scratch, Alfred?"</p><p>Alfred unspooled a length of dental floss and showed Stephanie how to use it to cut the rolls neatly without crushing them. "Of course, Master Bruce. Though I never found your mother's recipe, I believe these are a close facsimile."</p><p>Bruce surprised them all by laughing. "She didn't <em>have</em> a recipe, Alfred. Those buns came from a can."</p><p>Alfred paused, and Stephanie glanced between them, an inquisitive grin on her face. </p><p>"A can?" he asked faintly.</p><p>"Yeah. You know, the kind with the terrifying pop when you open it?"</p><p>Stephanie let out a snorting laugh. "<em>You're</em> afraid of those cans, too?"</p><p>Bruce leaned against the refrigerator and smiled at her. "As a boy, I was afraid of most things, but even now, there's something frightening about opening one of those cans. I think it's the uncertainty—you never know when it's going to finally pop."</p><p>"It's a punishment for the hubris of packing so much cinnamony goodness into such a small space," Stephanie said, earning another laugh from Bruce.</p><p>Alfred was still too taken aback to laugh. "A can," he repeated, aghast. "Well, I daresay that explains why I was never able to replicate them successfully."</p><p>"My mother was a woman of many talents, as you well know, but cooking was not one of them," Bruce said ruefully, and Alfred was glad to see that though the grief still shone in his eyes, for once it was tempered by humor. </p><p>"Alas, she passed that on to you," Alfred said, finally smiling. "But it's never too late to learn."</p><p>Bruce held his hands up in surrender. "I will happily chop and sift and peel for you, Alf, but I think it's best if I leave the actual cooking in your capable hands."</p><p>Alfred eyed him skeptically. "Then I think you will clean up today when Miss Stephanie and I are done."</p><p>"Sure," Bruce answered easily, "but I get first taste of those cinnamon rolls."</p><p>"Deal!" Stephanie said before Alfred could reply.</p><p>"Very well, then, Master Bruce. We shall have a full house for dinner, so you might as well wait here for these to come out of the oven. Otherwise, who knows if there will be any left?"</p><p>"Hn." He took a long sip of water. "I guess the Shanghai reports can wait till later." He picked up the newspaper from where Alfred had left it on the sideboard, found a pen, and flipped to the crossword. </p><p>Alfred turned his attention back to Stephanie, who resumed cutting cinnamon rolls and then placing them in the pan for their second rise.</p><p>Bruce did the washing up while Stephanie dried, and Alfred took over the crossword. He quickly filled in the answers Bruce had left undone. </p><p>"Activation, as in baking," he murmured, "five letters. Proof. Yes." He looked up when Bruce placed a cup of tea in front of him, and smiled.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Coda</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Bruce and Selina vs. a can of Pillsbury cinnamon rolls.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bruce had eaten with Selina in some of the best restaurants in the world and some of the greasiest dives in Gotham. They'd split a plate of mussels in a bistro in Marseille and eaten fries off each other's plates in a diner in Burnside, and recently, they'd had Alfred's cranberry orange scones for brunch at the manor.</p>
<p>But they were in Selina's apartment now, the one she actually lived in, which wasn't the gaudy penthouse in the Diamond District she used to entertain, but also wasn't the drafty studio in Crime Alley she used as a safe house, either. He didn't usually sleep over (he frequently didn't sleep at all, at least not when he wasn't in his own bed), but it had been a long and active night, both on patrol and in her arms, and he'd fallen asleep. Now she was offering him breakfast. A morning for firsts.</p>
<p>"I didn't know you cooked," he said neutrally.</p>
<p>"Not everyone has an Alfred."</p>
<p>He titled his head, conceding the point. "The world would be a better place if they did."</p>
<p>She hummed in agreement and opened the fridge, bending at the waist to give him a spectacular view of her ass as she rummaged around, looking for something.</p>
<p>"Aha! I knew I'd bought these…" She turned the can over and looked at the expiration date on the bottom, "fairly recently." She held it out to him and he almost took it, and then he realized what it was.</p>
<p>"Ah, no," he said. "If I do it, it will explode all over the place." </p>
<p>Selina's skeptical eyebrow was as devastating as Alfred's. "I don't think that's true."</p>
<p>"Those cans are pressurized. You don't know what could happen."</p>
<p>"I don't think they'd be allowed to sell them in grocery stories if they were in danger of exploding, Bruce." Her mouth twitched in some combination of annoyance and affection. "I find Brucie as amusing as the next person—maybe more, being in on the joke—but don't front like that right here in my own kitchen."</p>
<p>Selina cocked a hip and held his gaze for a long moment, and he wondered if he was going to ruin one of the best relationships in his life over a can of cinnamon rolls.</p>
<p>He took in a sharp breath through his nose and unclenched his jaw. "I used to make them with my mother. It always scared me when she opened the can. As a boy." His voice was flat and his mouth felt uncomfortably dry.</p>
<p>Selina's face softened, just a little, probably more because he'd told the truth than because she pitied him. She'd never pitied him and he hoped she never would. That really would ruin things. But pity wasn't really Selina's style, though she had compassion to spare, if only for cats and children.</p>
<p>"Okay." Her voice was brisk even though her eyes were still soft, and her mouth curved in a mischievous smile. "Let's do this." </p>
<p>He fumbled around a little, opening drawers until he found a spoon to offer her. "Here you go."</p>
<p>She held the can over the sink at arm's length and pressed the spoon to the seam. He didn't flinch when the can popped, but he did let out a soft laugh that was mostly air. Selina crowed triumphantly and brandished the spoon like a trophy.</p>
<p>"My hero," he said drily.</p>
<p>She pressed him back against the cabinets with a hand on his chest and gave him a wicked grin. "And don't you forget it."</p>
<p>The cinnamon rolls were fine, when they finally got around to eating them. They tasted just like he remembered from Saturday mornings in the kitchen with his mother, and he thought she would be glad he'd found someone else to share them with, after all these years.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Just a little extra scene to explain how Bruce knows that 'even now' the pop of the can is scary.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I believe it was Guy Fieri who advanced the hubris theory about the Pillsbury can pop being terrifying. </p><p>I didn't manage to fit Cass and Babs in, because this was focused on Robins, not Batgirls, but know that Cass's special treat is croquembouche, and Babs's is crumb buns. I don't know Duke well enough to write him, but his treat is snickerdoodles.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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